Sacrifice
by reading
Summary: Post Devil's Trap.


_Sacrifice_

_Post Devil's Trap._

_xxxx_

"If we're going to do this thing, I need to know you boys are with me." John Winchester was standing at the foot of his son's bed. He shouldn't have been up, but he'd checked himself out of the hospital that morning, determined to start the hunt again. "I thought Sam understood the seriousness of what we're up against, that nothing's more important …"

John trailed off, eyes moving to his younger son briefly before he returned his attention to Dean.

Once again, Dean marveled at his father's single-minded focus on the one goal he'd set for himself over 22 years ago.

_Kill the demon_.

_Ignore the son who wouldn't follow orders and kill his father to kill the demon._

_Pretend that the son who'd almost been shredded by the demon just needed time to heal before he'd be the dutiful soldier again, obedient to the end._

Sam's jaw tightened, but he dropped his father's gaze, turning his eyes instead to his brother like that connection was his lifeline. In the time since Dean had regained consciousness he wasn't aware of two words his father and his brother had said to each other that didn't directly involve him.

This was a different silence than Dean was used to between his brother and his father—not the seething anger and resentment that had marked their relationship in Sam's teenaged years. But a recognition that nothing either of them could say would ever change the other.

They didn't speak because there was nothing to say.

Meeting Sam's eyes, Dean could see both resolve and uncertainty there, and he kept his eyes fixed on Sam's, trying without words to affirm the choice his brother had made.

God, he was so tired of this conversation.

"Dad." The word was a rasp, the intubation tube only having been removed the day before. It was a relief to be able to breathe—even gingerly—on his own, but his father seemed to take the fact that his son was no longer tethered to a machine as an indication that Dean was close enough to healthy to start talking about getting on the road.

"Son, I know you're not ready to leave yet." The determination on John's face had softened some at the sound of Dean's voice. "I just want to make sure we're all on the same page before we get moving again. Nothing's more important…"

Dean closed his eyes against the familiar, hated words.

"Dean, I know that's not what you want to hear." John's eyes flicked to Sam. "That either of you want to hear. But to kill this thing… We have to be willing to make sacrifices. I need you …"

"Are you willing to sacrifice Sam?" Dean interrupted, opening his eyes.

John looked startled at the question. "Dean…"

"Or me?"

"Son…"

A strange combination of despair and rage welled up in Dean's chest.

"Dad, what do you think it would have done to Sam if he'd killed you to kill the demon?" he asked roughly. It was a good thing that his couldn't raise his voice because inside his head the question was a scream of frustration at his father's obtuseness.

Now John's eyes went abruptly to his younger son. Sam's face had turned ashen, and his eyes, turned to his father, mirrored the horror he felt at the thought of what he might have done. John couldn't turn away from the grief he saw there, but Sam did, his eyes going back to his brother.

"What do you think it would have done to me," Dean continued, his voice breaking, "if Sam had killed you?"

It was John's turn to pale.

"Dean…"

But Dean wouldn't be interrupted.

"I don't know how to have this conversation any more," Dean said wearily. "I can't seem to make you see that throwing your life away to kill this thing…." He broke off, hand coming up to rub at his eyes.

"I guess I can't stop you from killing yourself, if that's what..." He couldn't get the words out, and it took him a long moment to get himself under control, to gather the strength for what he needed to say next.

"But I won't let you destroy Sam the way you're determined to destroy yourself." He said it so softly John almost didn't hear it. Dean's eyes went to Sam, shaken and silent in the chair next to his bed, before they returned to his father.

"I can't."

"Dean." So softly.

In the quiet, time crawled to a stop.

"I _have_ to kill this thing." John paused. And made a choice. "_I_ can't…"

Dean couldn't breathe.

John's eyes when they met Dean's were full of a self-loathing and a determination that told Dean the decision his father had already come to.

Dean nodded, heart shattered with the knowledge of that choice. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam, his head swiveling between his brother and his father.

John reached out a hand and gripped the end of the bed that held his son.

"Take care of Sammy," he said quietly. As if that were even a question.

"Dad," Sam said it brokenly, fists clenching on the blanket that covered Dean's bed. But he didn't move.

"Sammy." John turned to his youngest son. "You take care of your brother, you hear me?"

Sam swallowed convulsively, his eyes moving from his father to Dean. "Yes, sir."

Moving toward the door of the hospital room, John Winchester's steps were those of a much older man, slowed by a grief that felt large enough to swallow him whole. He knew that all he needed to do was turn around, choose to stay, choose his sons.

But he couldn't do it, rage and bitterness propelling him forward, his back to his children, as he walked away.

_The End._


End file.
